


A Marriage Proposal

by Alegani (Alega)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:20:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27407224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alega/pseuds/Alegani
Summary: Francis asked if he would marry him. Arthur refused, of course.His answer will have consequences.FrUK, UKFr.
Relationships: England/France (Hetalia)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 34





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fanfic is based on a story I wrote a couple of years ago. For a long time, I wanted to rewrite it, and now here I am. English is my second language, sorry if there are grammar mistakes.

**01**

“Do you marry me?”

The question abandoned Francis’ lips so suddenly that Arthur forgot how to breathe for a few seconds. He looked to the man in front of him, with his back straight and his blue eyes paying attention to Arthur’s facial expression. His brain processed the words carefully, trying to evaluate what kind of prank Francis was playing. He did not give him the satisfaction of examining him as an experiment in a laboratory. His face was cold and even disgusted by his guest’s insolence. 

“Did you hit your head again?” Arthur said, deciding the best answer was another question. He left his empty cup of tea on his desk. The traffic’s sounds from the windows interrupted the wave of the conversation. Previously, he had opened the windows blinds to welcome the sunshine in the morning. The weather was good today, but Francis had ruined the day with his visit. 

The last time Francis asked the same, Arthur’s office was in another house he had sold ten years ago. He had decided to purchase a small apartment in London while keeping the other homes within his territory’s borders. He replaced the furniture, even the shelves, and the desk. Although Arthur kept a couple of things. They were objects that still had value in his memory. 

He remembered Francis dressed in second-hand clothes and with a sad expression. Arthur knew the conditions that led Francis to humiliate himself in front of his old enemy. No one was surprised when Arthur refused his nonsense without giving it a second thought. 

“You have become deaf with the years,” Francis said. He left out an affected sigh like he was an actor practicing for his next scene. “I am proposing to you. In other words, getting married. You and me.”

Arthur knew he would lament his curiosity. 

“And why are you proposing to me?”

“For personal reasons,” Francis replied.

Arthur raised an eyebrow while he observed his guest carefully, forgetting his manner. He did not need to be a gentleman with Francis. He decided Francis did not look in bad shape. Even if people ask somebody else and not him, the person would admit Francis looked more handsome than ever. His clothes were too expensive for his tastes, an insubstantial waste, but he liked the perfume Francis had chosen this time. Francis did not resemble the miserable country from years ago, desperate to sign the marriage’s papers. 

“If your empty head pretends we marry each other, you understand I need to know everything about your personal affairs,” Arthur said. He would regret to follow the farce later. ‘What are you doing?’ he asked himself. Part of him wanted to run away from his own home and take shelter in the closest pub. The other part, the one with the curiosity, wanted to keep holding a knife against his neck. “What is the problem with you?”

“I just think,” Francis said, and Arthur knew he was doing the same: avoiding to answer directly, taking the conversation to other places. “Both of us will benefit from marriage. I do not need to marry urgently, but in those circumstances, if we are together…” 

“You have Ludwig,” Arthur interrupted. 

“It is not the same. I don’t need to marry Ludwig.”

“And why do you _need_ to marry me?”

“I already said it is beneficial for both.” Francis insisted. He bent backward on his chair like he was trying to breathe deeply to clear the tension emanating from Arthur. He left uncovered part of his neck, and even that simple movement stole the attention from anything else. “Don’t get me wrong. I don’t adore the idea. I didn’t wake up this morning thinking today is a good day to marry that bastard. But it can be a good decision. Maybe. My boss…”

“So, it is your boss’ idea.” Arthur almost spilled the words. Francis’ chatter had been as a punch in his guts. He imagined himself opening the window, taking Francis by his shirt, and throwing him from the third floor. Nothing will happen, he would survive, but the fall would hurt. 

‘You can not solve everything with him using violence.’ His conscience talked to him with a voice that mixed all his past bosses since 1904—instead, Arthur outlined a faint smile, a mere caricature that everyone would have feared. Francis seems to have expected that reaction. 

“It is my boss’ idea,” Francis said. “The official proposal will arrive soon, I guess. I don’t love it. You are the last one with whom I would want to marry. I am not made for marriage, and you neither. I know you, Arthur. But it is a necessary evil. Once you read the proposal, once you understand the benefits, you will buy me a ring, the most beautiful ring according to you, and I will tell you that no, I do not want that ring, because I am sure it would be the ugliest one. Or a cheap one, a terrible ring, like something from a thrift store. You will argue to me, “we need to save money.” You will tell me, “it does not matter. You don’t deserve it.” You will… 

“Get out,” Arthur said.

Usually, Francis would ignore his complaints and continue doing whatever stuff he wanted, but this time, he seemed to understand the threat behind Arthur’s voice. “And next time you come to me with such nonsense, I will not care about the consequences. I will make you pay.”

Francis did not argue anything against the warning and left the office silently. Arthur was not sure if Francis had left the house or decided to be quiet in a kind of peace treaty. He did not go away from his office to find out. Instead, with his head spinning with thousands of thoughts and zero certainty, he went to the bar that he kept in a corner, close to a shelf full of books and memories. He took the closet bottle in his hands and poured a drink.

* * *

Arthur almost reached the top of a table the last time Francis came to visit him. The memory was fresh in his head because Francis went out of his way to comment on how childish he looked, how short he was, the red of his cheeks every time he was embarrassed, and his little knowledge about what they were. 

About what they would become with the years. 

Francis talked like he possessed all the knowledge in the world. When he opened his mouth, the people around him went silent and listened to him like a bard singing in the court. Arthur imitated the rest of the people at first, and then, when questioning the reason behind that behavior with Francis, he concluded Francis enchanted people with arts different from sorcery. 

How many months passed since the last time? Five, six? Francis excused himself, explaining he was taking care of his territory and his neighbors, leading the rest of the young nations by the right path. He mentioned a guy called Antonio a couple of times, with love almost overflowing his mouth. He talked about some twins that he started to call little brothers too. Francis did not have siblings, and maybe that was why he was desperate to have them. Arthur knew Francis did not miss anything. 

“Oh?” Francis said, with a concerned gesture, when he saw Arthur finally. 

Arthur gave him a proud smile. He had grown in the last months. Francis did not have motives to call him caterpillar again while looking down on him. Now, they almost had the same height. He was not a child anymore (his brothers grew up too, but that was a problem for _another_ day). Francis could not think of him as a child anymore. 

“So?” Arthur said, enjoying he left Francis out of words. 

Francis blinked like he did not understand the question. 

“So what?” Francis asked, and he managed to still look down on him like nothing had changed. “Are you talking about your clothes? They are terrible. I have told you before you would look better dressed like me. You look like a cupbearer instead of, you know, someone important. But it is too late now, I am afraid. 

Arthur’s cheeks became red as the wine served a couple of tables away. ‘Moron,’ he thought, wanting to throw out some wine on his head, take him by the hair, and clean the dining table using his pretty face. He could not solve these conflicts by biting and punching anymore. His boss had mentioned the word diplomacy, and Arthur had promised he would use it more often. 

It was not easy.

Before Francis suspected the danger around him, he changed the conversation and asked Arthur to go for a walk. He said it was important to evaluate the wellness of the cities and the people. Arthur thought it was an excuse, so people could see him and treat him like an important person. At least, people would detail his clothes and try to replicate them from now on. 

Arthur breathed deeply, and he accepted the idea, thinking a walk will help to calm him. Or, at least, he could run away when the impulse to kick him to the floor became out of control. Finally, there was no reason to act like Arthur was less valuable than him, and yet, Francis managed to make him feel like a child. 

They wandered the closest town, trying to blend between the people. It was useless. Their clothes were too clean and delicate, even Arthur’s, which was not careful with them when he practiced with the sword or the bow. 

Francis adored the interest they woke in the people. He approached them to talk about their lives, paying so much attention that Arthur had started to think Francis wrote songs about them when he was alone. A baker gave them two fresh pieces of bread, and Francis acted like it was the most wonderful gift in the world. On the other hand, Arthur mumbled a thank you and looked away, eating in silence. They went around different stores and discovered a couple walked so close their shoulders touched each other. 

“It is so beautiful,” Francis said, with a dreaming air in his face. 

“What?”

“Them.” Francis pointed to the couple. “They are married, of course. They will live together until death sets them apart.”

“There was an outbreak recently. If this couple is not careful, they will be dead soon,” Arthur said, wanting to maintain the conversation on familiar grounds. 

“But do you think it is beautiful?” Francis insisted. He had sat too close to him, and now, their shoulders touched like the couple. Arthur did not move away. 

“It is practical,” Arthur said. “Married couples can work more. The man has an assistant, in other words.”

“I am talking about love,” Francis started to treat him like a child, not like his equal. 

“Is that thing you mention in your stupid songs?” Arthur asked. 

“All the good stories started with love,” Francis said, and Arthur rolled his eyes, wanting terribly to throw bugs on his hair just to see if Francis kept talking nonsense. “But I am not going to lie about the benefits of being married. A marriage brings strength to people.”

“I guess,” Arthur said. He wished to give something important to the conversation that showed he was smarter than Francis. “If a marriage brings strength, why do people like us not marry more often?”

“What a magnificent remark!” Francis said. Arthur hated the satisfied feeling the compliment had on him. “Without a doubt, people like you should marry. You must choose somebody strong and intelligent. If I was you, I would talk with my boss, study my prospects and choose the best option.

“Yes?” Later, Arthur wanted to bite his tongue, but he could not hold back at that moment. “Like marrying you?”

Francis gave him a radiant smile, and for a second, he thought Francis was happy with the idea. Then, Arthur recognized the smirk on his face. 

“I will never be an option,” Francis said. “Marriage only works for small nations like you. I am bigger and more important. I will not win anything if I marry somebody. On the contrary, another would benefit from me, and I will never give that much power to anyone else.”

Arthur did not remember much about that day, only that later, he pushed Francis to a mud puddle that smelled like cow dung and then claimed it was an accident. Even when Francis yelled at him crying, Arthur did not feel good with himself. 

He decided marriage will never be an option for a nation like him. He will become a powerful nation by his own means.

And Francis would pay every word he said. 

* * *

Arthur went out of his office past midday, with his hungry stomach roaring and resenting the early cup of alcohol. He decided to blame Francis for his circumstances. After the first drink, the memory had awakened in him, tasting its sour and sweet savor like revenge. 

Francis had not looked more than twelve years old, and Arthur seemed like a boy desperate for proving to the world he was stronger than his siblings and neighbors. He finally won after decades of torment, and every time he drank, he repeated his memories like a penance. 

He felt like a complete idiot. He had been the first to pronounce the proposal, but he was not entirely serious. It was an innocent proposal that he said to Francis because he did not have more company. It had been a mere example. If he would have been with… with… Arthur tried to think of another country that would have served as an example, but no one appeared in his mind. It was mortified to think about repeating the talking with Portugal, Spain, or Prussia. 

In the end, Francis was right. Arthur proved it with sweat, efforts, and blood. He still remembered how other weak children raised their voices in rebellion, throwing the tyrant from the pedestal, and obtaining freedom. Arthur had become powerful, so powerful that he believed once the world was his. 

But, despite his power, Francis remained unreachable. 

Maybe it was the alcohol running through his blood, perhaps it was the humiliation he suffered by Francis ages ago, or an insane and terrifying idea in the corner of his brain, but he craved for celebrating his triumphs. He did not need anyone. He would never need the help of others. And, what about Francis? How had he ended? With how many had he talked about a desperate marriage proposal? 

He took his phone and made a call.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and the kudos! I am so happy you liked the first chapter. Right now, I am spending a lot of time at home, so I can keep updating this story :')

**Chapter 2**

“Where are you, bastard?”

Francis did not reply immediately. Arthur suspected that a call from him was unthinkable, especially after the way he asked him to leave his house. Also, Francis’s visit was in the morning. Maybe he decided later to go back to his own territory or wander by himself around London like a miserable man. Thinking about Francis drowning his sorrows in the chaotic and gray London’s ambiance provoked an empty feeling in his stomach, and Arthur did not know—he did not _want_ to know— to identify its origin. 

He was wasting his time having those thoughts. Probably, after being rejected, Francis kept living like nothing had happened between the two of them, planning the next way to disturb his old enemy. Francis did not ask to marry him because he was dying to be Arthur’s spouse. That bastard that talked about love every time he opened his mouth handled marriage like a monetary transaction. 

“How?” Francis said, finally, like he did not understand Arthur’s simple question. 

It was an insult that other countries thought about them as rivals, among other things. 

“I said: Where are you? I am looking for you,” Arthur sighed, irritated due to his initiative. “I am pondering your stupid offer, but first, I need to see you. We have to discuss it.”

He refused to be explicit about what they needed to talk about each other. The reasons were in the air. Besides, his words would not come out from his throat. He liked to lie to himself from time to time—or always when he needed it to face difficult subjects—, but Arthur could guess his behavior under certain circumstances. 

“But you...” Francis went silent like his eloquence decided to take some vacation. Arthur heard him sighing over the phone and then gave him his address with a quiet voice tone. Francis added he would send it by text message too. “It would take you forty-five minutes, maybe. I will wait for you in the cafe. See you”

Arthur ended the call without saying goodbye. He felt a tingling sensation in his fingers. His lips dried like an arid land under the sun. A part of him asked if he really wanted to continue his vengeance’s act if it was absolutely necessary to waste his time. “But it is too late,” he said to himself. “I called him. And he began everything.”

Everything would be better if Francis had not arrived at Arthur’s door that morning. If Arthur had not welcomed him, letting him in and allowing him to sit in his office. Even more, that morning was the perfect occasion to just lay in bed. 

Arthur took his coat, his apartment’s key, and his phone before leaving his home.

* * *

The new instrument was against the wall. Its color was an opaque yellow, less striking than the popular shades from the last years. The fingerboard was larger and thinner than the ones Arthur had seen before, and the rest of the body was full of curves that gave it a modern look, almost futuristic. 

Although it was the same guitar as always. 

Arthur never was a big enthusiast of them. Usually, Antonio was the one who use them to entertain his visits. Arthur had been in Antonio’s performances and had decided the instrument was not made for him. 

This guitar was different from anything else.

It belonged to Alfred first. Arthur saw it in one of his diplomatic travels around the United States. Previously, they agreed Arthur could stay in Alfred’s house to save money during his stay, and even when it was not perfect, Arthur remembered the times living together like a family, so different from the rotten relationship Arthur had with his siblings. 

“Ah, do you like this? You can take it,” Alfred said. “I don’t do anything with it.”

He sat in a chair in the middle of his living room and accommodated the guitar between his hands. He had attended rock concerts before, so he saw artists playing like it was part of their arms. At first look, it seems easy and natural, but Arthur knew the years of practice required to reach that mastery level. 

He played the first chord. The sound crossed the room like a beast’s roar, but Arthur understood he was not creating music. Not yet. His rhythm was slow, sloppy, and inharmonious. He bit his lips, and he repeated the same melody, again and again, remembering the artists he saw before and their hands traveling across the guitar with talent. 

He did not know the exact moment the noises became music, but his heart, his skin, and all his body started to vibrate from the beats his fingers produced. Sweat made his face shine, and a satisfied smile on his lips appeared unexpectedly. He did not remember when was the last time he felt so alive. 

Arthur left the guitar reposing on the wall again. He cleaned his face with a towel, and only then, he discovered the room’s door had opened at some moment of the practice. He did not care. In his house, there were events difficult to explain to regular people. Maybe a fairy, a pixie, or a ghost was at fault.

“It was Francis.” One of the magical beings appeared close to him, small like a dragonfly. “He came and then went home.”

“That’s weird,” Arthur said. “Are you sure? Maybe it was a creature adopting Francis’ shape.”

“I am sure,” the fairy said. “Francis opened the door, but you did not listen. And he said nothing. Now that you say it, he didn’t look like Francis, not like the old one, but he was. 

“And what did he do all this time? Did he steal anything?”

“Nothing,” the fairy said. “Francis only saw you and went away.”

“That’s weird,” Arthur repeated. 

He decided he would ask Francis next time they met, but he never got the opportunity. Every time, meeting after meeting, other more important topics eclipsed his doubts, and with time, the unannounced visit looked so irrelevant that Arthur preferred to let it go. Only on a few occasions, when Arthur played the guitar and discovered Francis looking at him subtly, curiosity threatened him to take over his head. 

* * *

During his way, the idea of going home and telling Francis that he had not been serious crossed Arthur’s mind frequently. He still could not believe he was serious. He repeated to himself he would take advantage of Francis’ situation. Arthur would enjoy having won this competition between them. The thought gave him the strength to continue. He managed to park his car on a busy road and then walked to the coffee shop Francis talked about. 

The place was not huge, so he gave a quick look. Besides the employees, there were a couple of clients and anyone else. Francis was not there. His indignation feeling increased, and the desire to push Francis again into a mud puddle too. 

Francis had lied to him just for having the privilege of ghosting him. Francis always did whatever he wanted without thinking about other people, considering their time had less value than a cent. 

When Arthur exited the coffee shop, he found Francis walking in the crowd. His eyes were looking for him inadvertently, like an accident impossible to avoid. Francis crossed the street, moving at speed faster than average. Francis never stressed about arriving on time to places; other people often had to wait for him, and he had said more than one time that all the good stuff is worth waiting for. Still, Francis managed to go ahead carefully into the street, avoiding fall over busy Londoners. 

Arthur crossed his arms while Francis shortened the distance between them. When Francis was finally at his side, he gave him a surprised look. 

“You’re early.”

“And you’re late, even when you chose the place of the meeting.”

“I was here before,” Francis explained. Arthur raised an eyebrow, asking for more answers. “But then, I thought of a better way to use our time. Look, I didn’t only come for the marriage business. I planned to do more things. And well, he is an amazing artist. Probably you know him because I am sure you find time to appreciate art.”

Arthur was regretting his craving for revenge. Francis ruined everything, even when Arthur was on the winning side. He thought an average person would plan the marriage proposal with extreme detail, not like a number more in a to-do list. Before Arthur could look for a way to ask the question without seeming concerned, Francis gave him a ticket to the art gallery.

“Come on. I don’t want to stay outside when it closes.”

Arthur opened his mouth to say something, anything mean, but his head was blank. He followed Francis, although he already knew where the building was. Of course, he had met the artist before. Without realizing it, both of them walked together, side by side. This did not happen frequently. Arthur usually was in a hurry, and his steps were rushed, while Francis took his time with everything, like a turtle in a race. 

Arthur did not want to recognize his disappointment. He had prepared for a serious conversation. He had gathered courage and patience and even decided which words to say. Francis disarmed him without realizing it, taking him to a territory where Arthur had not analyzed the probabilities. 

The silence among them during the walk helped him to collect his ideas. During the art gallery, the silence among them, observing pictures and pictures, only worked to scatter his previous thinking. Arthur was losing himself between the art and Francis, who talked about every image they looked at. Arthur acted like the cat got his tongue, and he realized with horror that Francis knew what was happening with him.

Maybe, Francis even was enjoying it. 

They sat on a bench at the end of the gallery, and they stayed shoulder to shoulder. The last picture, full of intense blue and red, was in front of them. The image was powerful, and like the rest of the art, it clouded his head. He only could think about he was next to his old enemy, orbiting around a marriage of convenience’s proposal. He wondered in which corner his revenge had hidden. He only wanted to run away now. If Arthur had the opportunity, he _really_ would have run away. 

“Did you think about us?” Francis asked. 

“I am here for a reason,” Arthur said. None of them dared to look at each other's faces.

“Is that your way to say yes? Do you accept?” Francis asked, more incredulous than Arthur expected. 

“No,” Arthur exclaimed, harsher than he intended. “I am not going to marry you. There is no benefit for me. Nations like me—“And you once,” he thought— are better if alone. What do I gain from you? 

“Marriage is not a profit.”

“It is for us. And marrying you right now is like buying clearance products about to expire. Tell me, bastard, do you think I would do it? I had rather seen you disappear. 

“And even though,” Francis said, and Arthur knew those inquisitive blue eyes were on him. “Here you are. Did you decide to meet me just to play a little game? Do you want to joke about my proposal? Or do you want to tell me I should try another day again?”

Arthur knew he must not choose the last one. _He must not_. 

“And how will you try another day again?”

“I don’t know. I have to think about it. And even if I know, I wouldn’t tell you.”

“I am not a man of surprises.”

“Not, you don’t,” Francis said, meaning that he would have to accept the outcome.

Arthur ventured to look at his blue eyes. Francis kept observing him like he was enjoying the conflicting emotions inside Arthur. For a short moment, the panic conquered his feelings while imaging the other man touching his lips, kissing him like they were on a mere date, and then disappearing with a stolen heart. If Francis did any suspicious movement, Arthur would hit him. 

Arthur almost jumped when Francis finally decided what to do next. Francis got up from the bench and walked away a couple of steps. Without words, he seemed to have read his thoughts. 

“Perfect, Arthur Kirkland. I’ll keep trying,” Francis said, but he did not come back to him. There were no kisses, hugs, or love confessions. 

Arthur felt horrified and disappointed at the same time. He wanted to yell that Francis could go to hell, and then, he wished to retreat himself from the trap he had fallen unwillingly. Francis was the one to leave first, saying goodbye with a hand gesture. Arthur heard Francis’s steps going away, as rushed as before on the street like he could not wait to abandon London that night. 

“What have I gotten myself into?” Arthur thought, feeling too alone in the last aisle of the gallery.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your readings! This chapter does not have a lot of action, but it is necessary for plot reasons :') I liked to write Portugal. I like the name Tiago for him. I did not bother thinking about Rome and Germania's names, I don't think they will be mention again. But for Scotland, his name is James.  
> Once again, sorry for my English!

**Chapter 3**

Days passed by as Francis’ proposal started to look like a dream. Arthur found himself remembering the moment, trying to capture the details that were fading. What was behind Francis’ facial expression? What about the tone in his voice when asking the question? And what about Francis’ disappointment in the beginning, and the hope that, maybe, Arthur would reply with a yes? 

Every time he thought about it, air would disappear from his lungs, only calming down after making sure that he was following something divided between a joke and revenge, and there was nothing that could compromise him. Arthur would enjoy all that he could, and in the best instant, he would break Francis’ dreams in pieces.

Francis did not call or visit him again. Arthur focused on his daily tasks without suffering any interruptions, dividing his time between meetings with his boss and the rest of the government and his everyday life in London, trying to pretend he was a regular guy. Arthur came back to the art gallery, this time alone, appreciating the pictures without Francis distracting him. He had made some cooking recipe with good-enough results; he assisted to one of his favorite plays—and a part of him insisted he had to come back with Francis, just to show it off against Francis’ face, then, went with Alfred and Matthew to a hockey game where he did not understand anything but drank a lot. Finally, he had a phone conversation with James that lasted for a whole minute, until both of them cut the call violently. A complete success. 

He decided to visit Tiago in Portugal that Friday. His old ally had invited him to his home a day after Francis’ proposal, and Arthur ignored him at first because he suspected the reason behind the sudden interest to meet each other. Since some years ago, Antonio and Tiago calmed down their rivalry just enough to build a kind of trust.And Francis trusted in Antonio too, telling him everything. Absolutely everything.

Tiago lived in a small and cozy house in front of the beach. He always kept the windows open to hear the waves reaching the shore. The salty and humid maritime scent impregnated the rest of the place. 

Tiago put the dinner in front of Arthur. The food smelled delicious, but it was too much for him, much more he was used to eating alone in his tiny apartment in London. Sometimes Arthur wondered how Tiago seemed so healthy after all. 

Arthur thanked his friend for the meal and grabbed the fork, knowing it was impossible to complain about the dinner’s portion. Tiago would tell him that was the necessary portion for a young adult, even for him with a hard to please taste. 

“Do you want to go for a walk later?” Tiago suggested, sitting next to him with a similar plate. “The weather is good. And it is sunny. When was the last time you saw the sun?”

“I see it every fucking day,” Arthur said, stopping the criticism before he let it grow. “Sun appears in London too, although you like to pretend it doesn’t.” 

“Let’s go for a walk later,” Tiago decided, and Arthur accepted, thinking that maybe he was wrong about Tiago’s intentions. 

Maybe Antonio kept his mouth shut, for the first time. Perhaps, Francis stopped telling everything to his best friend. 

Maybe Francis preferred to keep their business as a secret between them.

After eating, Arthur felt so satisfied that he almost fell asleep on his chair. He yawned, forgetting about his manners, but Tiago did not care; instead, the host took the empty plates on the table and put them in the kitchen’s sink, while Arthur opened the door connected to the beach in the back yard. He felt the wind on his face immediately, like it had been waiting for him all this time.

When Tiago met him, they walked through the yard, left the house, and entered the beach. There were few people around them, and Arthur appreciated the moment of privacy. Tiago looked to the horizon that showed a sea without limits, and his sight, as many other times, clouded for a second of memories that the sea brought back between the waves.

Arthur did not interrupt him. All of them, _beings like them_ , had that kind of moment. The older the nation was, the more was the time the memories took away, trapped between the past, between what was missing and would never come back. Francis used to do the same when he believed no one was paying attention. Rome and Germania used to have those moments too, and one day they never came back to the present, turning into statues, then in dust and, at last, in nothing. 

“The weather is good today,” Tiago said, returning from his memories like everything was all right. 

They walked, keeping a light conversation and running away from serious matters. Arthur did not try to find out what Tiago had been thinking of before; it was not his business to know what Tiago was missing. Although Arthur did not have such luck or regard. 

“Antonio told me curious news,” Tiago said when they reached the dock. 

Of course, Antonio never kept secrets or his mouth closed. 

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Arthur said, like defending himself before Tiago attacked him.

“Sure, but what happens if it isn’t?” Tiago said. “Antonio told me Francis’ boss is trying to unify their territory with someone else…”

_With me_ , Arthur though. _Just with me. You could say my name._

“He has gotten crazy,” Arthur said.

“It is a kind of alliance,” Tiago concluded. 

Arthur pretended to be indifferent, while Tiago studied every gesture in his face. 

“Antonio told me that Francis’ boss proposed Germany, Russia, and even Spain as candidates. But Francis rejected all of them.”

Arthur tried to erase the grin on his lips. So, Arthur was not the first option for Francis’ boss. Good lord, how could it be possible that Russia was first than him? And Germany and Spain? That man had truly lost his mind? 

“All those choices are so terrible that Francis would pick to jump off a cliff if that was an option.”

“More or less, that is what he did,” Tiago said. “Francis proposed your name to his boss, and the boss has to accept it.”

“Really?” Arthur said, almost falling off the dock. 

“It’s what Antonio has told me, that Francis would only accept to marry you and no one else.”

Arthur did not expect to get that information. He did not prepare his emotions for it, clenching his fists, feeling his face losing his pale color. He decided to focus on the sea, but he had such bad luck that the water reminded him of Francis’ eyes during the proposal, and then, he remembered Francis on so many different occasions that he was the one almost losing himself in the memories. Tiago kept looking at him, studying his reaction as an open book. 

Arthur’s attempts to hide his emotion were useless. 

“It’s stupid,” Arthur said, trying to sound sure of himself despite his doubts surrounding him. “Let’s suppose Francis is too idiot to come and ask me to marry him, and then what? Does he really expect me to accept? Does he want me to say yes, I have always wanted to marry him?”

“Do you not want his territory?”

The question almost offended him. 

“Of course I want his territory, of course, I want to conquer him. I tried it, and I failed, and then I decided, I’m good, and he can go to hell. And now what? Is he going to offer me what he refused me before? And what about him? Haven’t he thought about the possibility that he could disappear?” 

“Do you believe it?” Tiago asked. “It is not the first time there is an alliance between beings like us. Do you remember Austria and Hungary? They were fine.” 

“It was different. They were not a marriage, precisely, no matter how much Elizabeth pretends otherwise. Francis’ proposal is unthinkable. We marry, okay, and then? What is going to happen to him?”

If Arthur was younger, that would be the moment to kick the sand and fight against the sea waves, like they represented Francis’s stubbornness. 

“Arthur,” Tiago said slowly like he was walking straight to a minefield. “Did Francis propose to you?”

“Of course not!” Arthur exclaimed, too loudly, losing control of himself and the situation. He was strong, he was powerful, but he did not know how to deal with feelings. “And if he asked me—that no—, what is he hoping? That I marry him and throw away my common sense? No, the answer is no.”

Tiago pretended to believe him, and then, he changed the conversion, walking away from the swampy topic. But it was too late. The memories of Francis orbited his mind every time Arthur looked to the sea. They decided to visit the city too, looking for keeping on the distance the problems Arthur did not want to face, and Tiago was too educated to mention again.

Just at the end of the day, Tiago said what had been dancing on his tongue:

“Francis has said he only would marry you.”

“Yes, you told me that,” Arthur said, rolling his eyes. “The answer is always no.”

“Of course,” Tiago said. “No matter how you look at it, Francis has chosen the only option destined to fail.” 

Arthur did not want to think more about Francis’ proposal, and he said goodbye to his friend, expecting to visit him again soon. As a last favor, Arthur asked him to not discuss with anyone what they talked about on the beach, especially with Antonio. Tiago promised it reluctantly, and Arthur suspected that the first thing Tiago would do was to call Antonio anyway.

* * *

After he arrived from Portugal, he found a package waiting for him in the mail. It was a document wrapped in an envelope, and he knew where it was from. He had been thinking about it, wondering when it would arrive, and trying to convince himself that it did not matter, neither before nor now. He took the package and opened his apartment’s door with anxious movements.

He left it on the table. It was necessary; he should read it immediately to analyze the content, the proposal, and give an honest answer. He looked at it without daring to open it. Finally, he went to his room, removing his clothes like they were impregnated by Francis’ perfume instead of the salt and sand in Tiago’s quiet property. 

He started the shower and waited for the water to be burning before going under the shower’s head. Arthur wished to calm his nervousness through the water but putting away his reading only disturbed the anxiety under his skin, like a monster opening his jaw to devour him. He felt the magic of some fairies close to him, maybe playing around the restroom, and for sure, in the rest of the apartment. 

He envied their good mood and their lives without worries. 

Arthur went out of the restroom after dressing himself in a robe too big for his size. He did not care about his wet hair. No one was going to tell him he could catch a cold like a regular human. When he actually got sick, it was because of the economic crisis, and usually, the headaches were due to his siblings and neighbors, especially Francis, when they were straight enemies and took every opportunity to tear themselves apart.

He discovered the protagonist of his thoughts on the sofa, with a cup of tea on the table, with muffins next to it, and napkins placed in the right place to avoid possible messes. Arthur jumped, surprised, and as a defense mechanism, he took a step back. 

He was not afraid of Francis, but the answer he was not ready to give. 

“What the fuck are you doing in my house?” Arthur asked, ignoring the look Francis gave him as a greeting. He knew Francis was detailing him through and through, from his wet hair to his bare feet, and of course, the robe that was showing away more than he intended. 

“You left me in,” Francis explained. “Before disappearing and leaving me alone. If you wanted to take a shower, you could have invited me.”

“I don’t…,” Arthur said, but then he noticed the fairies dancing on Francis’ shoulder. They were trying to imitate a couple, and because they knew Arthur would be exasperated, the fairies kissed each other on the cheeks and then pointed to Francis, like saying without words that now it was Francis and Arthur’s turn. “I didn’t do it. The fairies did.”

“Of course, Arthur. The fairies.”

Of course, Francis did not believe in them, although they were dancing on him. As in many other things, Francis’ blindness was painful. The fairies left Francis at the same time the young man did his first movement, unexpected and without warning. With his mouth dried, Arthur went to the knot that kept his robe covering the right places. He intended to fix it and make it better. When he ended, the knot looked firm around the hips, like daring Francis to touch it. 

What would Francis do now? The pictures on his mind froze his legs. Maybe, would he cut the distance between them? Would he ask him to marry him again while pretending to kiss him like lovers? It would not be the first time Francis confused him in Arthur’s few moments of weakness, and either was the first time Arthur left his believings, his common sense, and his pride on the side. He had blamed alcohol and his inexperience. Now, horribly sober, Arthur did not have excuses. 

Arthur should have felt relieved when Francis went to the kitchen, away from him and his slight disappointment. Without telling him a new word, Francis started to boil water to make tea. Arthur wanted to stop him and ask what was happening in his mind, but he stayed as a gargoyle on the top of a building. 

“Why do you not go to put some clothes on while I make tea?” Francis said like Arthur needed instructions to function when he was there. “Then, we can talk.”

There was the problem. Arthur did not seem capable of starting a conversation related to the subject that he hated but Francis was interested in. He even desired to banish the topic using the kisses Francis did not give him, and Arthur was not dying to get. Instead, he shrugged and walked to his room like a creature looking for refuge in a cave. 

The idea of running away from his house tempted him. In the end, Arthur had a better idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews?


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year!
> 
> Anne Marie is Seychelles, I wanted to try a new name for her. Also, the second part of the chapter is a flashback. I do not try to be historically accurate, so sorry for any mistake!

**Chapter 4**

Arthur took a long time to get ready. He chose his clothes, combining the usual color palette to make sure he would not look like a clown in a circus. Also, he did not want to give Francis the opportunity to win the round in the game both of them were playing. After deciding his hair was a lost cause, Arthur went to his computer and found what he was looking for on the first try. The website gave him a date and a time. If they left in a couple of minutes, they would arrive with enough margin. He printed the information and all that he needed, and then he went back to the restroom without having any purpose in mind. 

There was nothing of interest in the shelve, and yet, he checked it with a vague and nervous gesture. He discovered a forgotten bottle that brought memories to him. Before, Arthur swore he would never use it. Anne Marie gave the bottle to him as a present the last time he went to Seychelles. The girl told him that the fragrance reminded her of London, and Arthur said jokingly if it reminded her of the sewer pipes. Anne Marie laughed, and soon, they changed the subject because Arthur did not feel comfortable receiving gifts. Just later that day, Anne Marie commented Francis was the one who thought of London after smelling the perfume. 

Arthur opened the bottle. It did not smell bad, he thought with relief. Anne Marie —and Francis, essentially— were right. That fragrance transported him to an old London, between the industrial revolution developing in front of the public and the magic still impregnating the mind of his people. Arthur put a little of the perfume in his wrists and neck, wondering if somebody else would notice it. 

Later, Arthur took the document and put it in his pocket. Only then, he went to the kitchen where Francis had made the promised tea a while ago. 

“I thought you fled away using your room’s window,” Francis said. 

It was obvious Francis examined him from head to toe, like he was expecting to discover the secrets Arthur kept hiding. Or, maybe—and Arthur did not like the idea—, Francis was checking Arthur’s appearance after years deciding the best color of his wardrobe, his shaved and clean face, and the new fragrance he tried just for Francis. 

“Wait, no. Not for him,” Arthur thought, exasperated. 

“I got something for you,” Arthur finally said, while Francis gave him a cup of tea that he had to reheat. The flavor was bland. The making of the perfect tea was not one of Francis’s culinary talents. 

“You look good,” Francis said. The innocent compliment provoked that Arthur’s face felt warm. “Do you have a date? I mean, besides me.”

“Unfortunately, I only have you,” Arthur said, as a fact he had resigned to. “Let’s go out.”

Arthur showed him the printed paper. There were two tickets for one of his favorite plays. It was about to finish the round of presentations. Arthur has already seen it a couple of times. He went alone to the premiere, but the next time, he had company. 

Francis gave him a smile without suspecting Arthur’s true intentions. 

“Marvelous. You know what I like.”

“Undoubtedly,” Arthur said. “I have suffered you all my life. I know a couple of things about you that I would prefer not to know.”

* * *

Arthur tried to go unnoticed in the French court. He disguised himself as the heir of a lower rank noble family that lived between the French and English territories. In that way, his strong accent was explained for the people not used to Arthur's language. Mingling between the court members, Arthur listened to what they said about the succession's conflict that had lasted a couple of years. 

He had not found Francis yet. Arthur could not believe Francis did not spend all his time chatting in the court, flirting with everyone, and reading poetry full of love, honor, and magic. Some French people approached him, and Arthur, who did not expect to be a subject of interest, started to reciprocate them with wobbly steps. He did it more for curiosity than for desire, but the result was the same. Although Arthur felt he was just acting like a complete idiot, they thought he was a bright knight. 

When he was not trying his luck in those matters, he observed the French people's everyday life. He studied the castle too, and he discovered its passages, even the ones hidden for most of the servants. After a while, he finally found out which dormitory Francis used, and moving without being seen by anyone, he finally arrived in the room during the night. Outside the castle, a storm foretold terrible omens. 

Arthur did not care to announce his identity before opening the door. 

Francis jumped when he saw him. Some papers slid from his hands and fell to the ground. Arthur did not expect to see Francis wearing simple clothes—just a long line tunic—so different to his court's pompous fashion, or even the exquisite clothes Arthur was wearing. 

Arthur felt that all that time, he had been the lord and Francis just a mere impostor. 

He liked the idea. 

"What are you doing here?" Francis asked with a serious tone he has never used it before. 

Arthur closed the door carefully without wanting to drag any attention and ruin the purpose of his trip. He walked across the room like he was the owner, and a part inside of him just believed it. It was a matter of time to take possession of all Francis had. 

Who was the servant now? How had to bow down in front of the other?

"I came to visit the territories I proclaim as mine," Arthur explained, although he imagined Francis already knew the answer. 

"Your claim does not have validity," Francis said. "Your King just made you lose your mind. Edward will never be my King."

"He already is," Arthur said. "The question is, when are you going to accept your place? When you are going to admit you give me the crown? You are so stupid to even realized something so simple."

"You are using a misunderstanding in the law," Francis explained. "And you are not going to let it go, aren't you? You have to take things too far. You have to ruin everything for me."

Arthur kept moving towards him, trying to seem like he had everything under his control. On the other side, he wanted to yell that Francis would be his, that he would take Francis along his territory. Without noticing his mistake, while Francis' people discussed the law of succession, the French ended giving Arthur and the King of England the perfect opportunity. Arthur was following the rules Francis imposed on his people, and in that way, the King of England acquired the rights to govern France. The rest of the candidates were impostors, just obstacles that Arthur would sweep away. 

Arthur was not the child Francis frequently visited anymore under the false pretension Francis was above him. Now, they could look at each other face to face. Arthur already had experiences in all kinds of areas. He had fought, even against his own blood, and he had learned. 

Francis step back when Arthur did the first movement. It was an unconscious and treacherous gesture that Arthur savored as the wine in his lips. He knew the toughness in Francis' face was an act. Maybe it was the enemy influence of the French territories, Arthur's current appearance, or James's conflict in Scotland, but Francis felt restless with Arthur being so close to him. 

Arthur picked up the papers on the floor under Francis' vigilance as if Arthur was a poisonous snake. He took his time reading them, knowing that the writer would not dare to oppose him. After he finished, Arthur left them on the table. 

"Was it supposed to be official?" Arthur asked, and he grinned. "Because it is just a bunch of lies."

"What do you mean?"

"Do you know what a lie is?"

"Of course, and treason too."

"Which treason, bastard? Are you mad because you ended where you belong? You have dug your own grave. I don't have anything to do about it."

Arthur could not avoid it. He took Francis by his arm, and although he found opposition at first, soon Francis seemed to give up to the inevitable. Both stayed quiet, trying to control their breaths and their desires at the same time. Arthur did not know what Francis was thinking, but he could barely hold his own thoughts. He wanted to show Francis his superiority. He wanted to let him clear who would win the dispute. He wanted to show him that he would take possession of Francis' territories, and Francis himself would become his servant. 

Or maybe Francis would disappear after losing everything. 

Arthur threw him to the bed in a rough movement. Francis let out an exclamation, while Arthur followed him, ending on top of him. Arthur covered Francis's mouth with one of his hands, and put the other on the chest. His heart started racing rapidly. He could feel Francis' heart under the delicate tunic, as accelerated as his. Arthur had never touched him that way during their fights. Would it be there where they resolve their conflicts? Is this moment where Arthur would claim him, take him as a hostage, and go together to his kingdom? Arthur did not plan any of this. 

As he did not plan that visit to France or confront Francis that night. The storm was not only pouring outside the castle. His King recommended him to be prudent, saying that he would be in charge of the following steps, but Arthur hadn't resisted. 

Suddenly, Arthur found himself with a knife touching the skin of his neck. 

"Get out," Francis said, with his tooth trembling with anger. Although, the knife was firm in his hand like he was used to carrying it and using it as a weapon. "If you leave now, I will forgive you, and I will not say anything. But you have to talk to your King. Tell him to retreat."

"Don't talk as if you still have any power."

Arthur released him. The reasoning came back to his brain, making him understand that he would not get anything by oppressing Francis against the bed. The idea of taking him as a hostage in the middle of the night, and without any further resources, was not realizable. He got up from the bed and walked his way to the door, fearing to fall again to his emotions. 

"It's too late," Arthur said. 

Francis got up too, without setting aside the knife between his hands. 

* * *

Arthur remembered he had left the French castle that same night, using the storm as a helper to hide his trace. He relegated the memory to a corner in his mind and parked on the first empty spot he found. 

He wanted to shake the triumph’s sensation of that old night. He had been young and insensate to appear to the enemy without any plan, but he had needed it. His blood and his pride had needed to scrub Francis that he was starting to rise above him. Arthur did not expect what happened across the years. 

Francis opened the car’s door like he was a gentleman. Arthur raised an eyebrow, without thinking to thank him for the gesture. 

“You are taking your time,” Francis said, in another way to tell him he was slow. “It’s like you have your mind in another place. What are you thinking?”

In you, Arthur thought, but he could not say that.

“Let’s go,” he said. “The play is going to start soon, and we have wasted a lot of time.”

“And whose fault is it?”

Arthur had exaggerated. In the end, they arrived with plenty of time to the theater and sat on their seats. Although the play has been for weeks on the stage, the theater was as crowded as the premiere day. Francis put backward the armrest that divided their seats. Arthur did not know if Francis did it unconsciously, used to that kind of date, or if he did it deliberately, expecting that Arthur would be okay with it. 

Francis did not say anything about the matter and started reading the brochure with the play’s information. While he was reading, his hand traveled naturally to Arthur’s arm, as he feared Arthur would disappear in the middle of the room. 

“By the way,” Francis said. “Henry V? Really?”

“It is a masterpiece,” Arthur said, more focused on what to do with Francis’ hand. Would he push it away? Or would he take the armrest back to its original position? He could not make a decision. 

“I bet it is one of your favorites,” Francis rolled his eyes, but he did not sound mad or offended. 

“Actually, it is. I like historical plays.”

“And if it’s about one of my losses, the better, right?” Francis said. Arthur like Francis’s tone as he was offering an invitation to get closer and talk directly in the ear. He held back in the name of his reputation.

“It is not like I was in a better position,” Arthur said. 

“We were young, and we knew so little,” Francis sighed, and that sight set free all his laments. “We have changed—me more than you. I have gotten older and feel tired easily. Do you imagine I have come to ask your hand in the same way you asked me to surrender that storming night in my castle? Do you remember? When you sneaked in my court, and I didn’t find out until it was too late.”

“Yes, I can imagine that,” Arthur said. “I don’t think you would have luck in throwing me to my bed.”

“Me neither. My back would hurt later,” Francis smiled at him, and Arthur could not avoid staying captivated by it. Both of them grew older, but Arthur did not feel that old. Francis did not look like an old person either. He still looked like an extremely handsome young man. 

Before replying to him, the play started. Francis did not quit his hand from Arthur’s arm, and Arthur did not move it away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
